Dear John Watson
by the-game-mrs-hudson-is-on
Summary: "I wrote to you everyday, my dear John. Well almost. I missed you, you have no idea how much. But I'm here now, and isn't now all that matters? I'm sorry, but they should explain, the letters should help you to understand how I felt." Johnlock. After the Fall, Sherlock leaves London. These are his letters to his dear John Watson.
1. Prologue

21st November, 2012

Dear John,

I thought this would help me, maybe make me feel like I'm in some form of contact with you. I'll never show you these, however, because it would all be too much for both of us. I've left London, left England in fact. I'm in Denmark staying in a dingy hotel and keeping my head down. It's alright I suppose, but nothing will ever compare to your company.

I really do miss you, you know. Well no, you don't know, because you're not here with me. You're back at home in 221B Baker Street. I'm so sorry I'm not there with you, but you may understand one day why I can't be.

I've begun to grow a beard, John, that's how desperate this has become. Can you even imagine seeing that? I laugh every time I look in the mirror and it takes all the will power I posses not to shave it off. I'm so bored. If I thought home was boring, I hadn't experienced boredom truly. I suppose you were there to keep me company then.

Food isn't good her either, and to be honest, Mrs. Hudson's absence in my life making me feel even more depressed. I miss her, and I didn't expect to at all, but I suppose she thinks of me rarely. I hope she spares me a thought now and again.

I don't think it is at all wise to begin solving cases anytime soon and it is killing me. I know you'd hate me for it, but I have begun to result to drugs. I haven't had any yet this week, but I fear I may become addicted, but I just don't know how to stop on my own, and I feel like it is an escape where I can imagine I'm back in London with you solving boring people's problems.

I'm so sorry if I ever made you feel like you were stupid or boring John, because you are the opposite, believe me.

I'll write again soon,

Your Sherlock.


	2. Chapter One: Present Day

**Present Day: 24th December, 2013**

Sighing and slumping down into his chair, Dr. John Watson leaned his head back and closed his eyes, relaxing finally after a day of stress. After a moment, he re-opened the lids and stared at the ceiling, before shifting his gaze straight ahead of him.

Straight at the empty chair that sat across from him; the one that would remain forever empty. John had tried to stop himself having these thoughts. Mrs. Hudson had advised it; it would be too painful, she'd said, and she was bloody right.

He placed his hands palm down on the chair arms and used all the effort he had left in pushing himself out of his armchair. Picking up his cane for his leg, he hobbled to the kitchen to retrieve a beer from the fridge.

Sitting down in his chair once more, he closed his eyes again, taking a swig of the alcohol and trying to forget about everything. His mind wandered, and then found Sherlock again.

Growling in annoyance at his brain, he slammed his hand down on the chair arm and took another swig.

"Ooh, are you alright dear?" came a small, high-pitched voice from the door way, making John smile despite his previous anger.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. Just annoyed is all" he replied kindly, grateful for her thoughtfulness.

"You don't sound it. Anyway, I've got a spare Christmas tree in my flat if you'd like it. What have you got there, huh? Beer? John, what have I told you about that stuff! It's full of all kinds of rubbish and it'll kill you off before you reach 50! But will you take my advice? Oh no! You know, sometimes you really do remind me of…" she stopped on the word; his word. His name.

John's expression fell, and he thought he felt his eyes begin to sting, but decided to ignore it. He didn't want to make her feel worse than she probably already did; after all, she missed him terribly too.

"No thanks; I don't think I'm going to do Christmas this year and I know, Mrs. Hudson, but it's been an incredibly long day". _A long life more like, _he thought to himself. The days seemed to drag on longer each time. He didn't leave the flat most weekends; Greg occasionally managed to get him to go to the pub or the theatre with him, but it was a rare thing. John could still remember when he'd asked him to come down to the morgue and see what he thought of a new murder victim. He'd broken down over the phone, the memories of his friend poisoning his mind. Greg came over and comforted him, and friendship between them had sparked. He couldn't bring himself to visit the morgue or anywhere remotely related to detective work. Not even to visit Miss Hooper, in whom he had found unexpected kindness. He saw her occasionally, as she sometimes joined him and Greg. She'd taken it hard too; John knew she'd always been extremely fond of Sherlock, and her feelings had probably developed into something more than just friendship.

The voice of his landlady brought him back out of his thoughts.

"Well, have you had something to eat anyway? There's some leftover fish pie in the freezer if you'd like me to heat it up. Just this once of course, I'm your-"

"Landlady, not my housekeeper; I know, don't worry Mrs. Hudson. And I would appreciate that a great deal, thank you" John replied, knowing her saying by heart.

"Alright dear, I'll get right on it" she replied, moving around the kitchen.

John sighed.

_Come on Sherlock, you git. Where are you when I need you?_

* * *

John sat staring out of the window, having finished his dinner. He was gazing at the stars, trying not to notice the door-to-door carol singers that seemed to have stopped outside the entrance to his flat. He somehow found comfort in the stars; maybe it is because they will never leave him. For as long as he lived there would always be stars there, up in the sky for him to see. Something caught his eye to the left of the window, as his phone flashed, signifying he's received a text message. He ignored it, his eyes lingering over another object.

Standing up and making his way over to the side table where it lay, he smiled sadly. Taking it in his hands he plucked a string on the instrument. His expression fell, realizing what he was doing, taking multiple steps back, away from the violin.

It hadn't been touched or moved since the day. Not for any particular reason, just simply that John had forgotten about it completely. He'd loved the sound of the stringed instrument ringing through the flat, even in though he may have complained about it at three in the morning countless times.

His phone flashed again; John ignoring it as he did before, moving back to his previous place at the window and gazing back into space. John glanced at his watch, and seeing that it was almost two am, he decided he would go to bed on the hour. He always had to go to bed on the hour; he'd found that strange.

"_There are weird perks to you, John Watson, and I intend to find them all" Sherlock spoke, staring into his eyes, before grabbing his coat and sweeping out of the door, leaving John blushing._

John smiled sadly at the memory, looking down briefly at the few people travelling home from work, and of course the few that were homeless. John felt a sudden strike of sympathy for them at this moment, and taking a snap decision, he decided that he might as well give one of them a bit of change for a something warm.

Grabbing his wallet, phone and keys, and pulling his jacket of the back of the door, he began to make his way down the flight of stairs, fairly slowly due to his leg. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, and beginning to get fairly frustrated at the person who was texting him at nearly two in the morning, he wasn't going to answer it.

He made his way out of the door, pulling his collar up against the sharp cold wind. It was clear, not a cloud in the sky, but it was bloody cold. Even more of a reason to help, so he pulled out his wallet, and walked over to the man sat outside 'Speedy's'.

"You there, do you want to give me some money to go get a cuppa tea?" John heard the man say, and began to step towards him cautiously, not really knowing what to do in this situation now that he was in it.

The man looked up at him from under his hat, his eyes wide and his hands rubbing together to try and muster some warmth.

"Um, yeah, that's why I came down. You looked like you needed something warm to drink, so, um, here you go" replied John, handing the man a five pound note.

"Wow, um, thanks mate. I wasn't expecting that much, but cheers anyway. I'm off to get a cuppa now then, see ya" he told John, and with a quick wave of his hand, he was gone.

John smiled, feeling slightly good about himself.

"You know, you really ought to check your phone" came a voice from behind him, making John spin round so quickly, he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Excuse me, what?" he said to the stranger. She didn't seem to be anyone John had seen before, although he saw so many people every day, he was sure not to remember this person. She was a woman, about his height, and wrapped in a thick coat and a warm scarf, indicating to John that she was not indeed homeless like the man he'd just given money to.

"Your phone, it's been buzzing the whole time I've been standing here. You might want to have a look at it. Just thought I'd tell you" and then she was gone, turning around and striding off down Baker Street and around the corner, until she was completely out of John's sight.

He thought about still ignoring his phone, but the woman had made him curious as to what could be so important at two o'clock in the morning.

He reached his hand into his pocket, before pulling out his phone and looking at the screen.

10 new messages.

All from anonymous. _God, this better not be one of Mycroft's tricks, trying to get me into a darkened alley again,_ John thought to himself.

His phone buzzed in his hand, pulling John out of his thoughts, and seeing that it was a new message, he opened it up.

"This is not Mycroft" John said aloud to himself. Infact he said it numerous times. Confused as to who the writer was and convinced that the timing of the text was just a coincidence, he proceeded to open the 10th one.

"John, go outside and don't look for me" _Don't look for who, who the bloody hell are you?_

And then the 9th:

"Don't tell Mrs. Hudson either"

"Greg and Molly, don't tell them"

"If you've figured it out, congratulations"

"Never mind impossibilities, just use your brain"

"You know me, John"

"Think you stupid man, think"

"I want you to think about who this could be"

"I am just down the street"

"Hello John"

John looked up, utterly confused and began to think. Who the hell was it? If it wasn't Greg, wasn't Molly, not Mrs. Hudson and not Mycroft, the only other person who had his number was…

"Sherlock?" John gasped as a dark figure walked around the corner, his black coat and blue scarf blowing in the wind. His eyes looked bluer that ever under the moonlight and there was a slight smile on his face.

"Yes John. It is me".

* * *

**A/N**: Hullo humbler readers, and welcome to my new story. Okay, so this one is a bit more complicated, so I'll just straighten it up for you. The prologue was the first ever letter that Sherlock wrote to John, which was a few weeks after the fall. This chapter is set in John's present day, so one year after the fall. The next chapters will proceed to be Sherlock's letters to John whilst he was away, and will be in the past, before this. And then in the last one or two chapters, it will go back to present day again. Got that? Okay, me neither, but let's give it a try.

Thanks for reading and if you could drop a review, it would make my day.

Adios,

Holly.


	3. Chapter Two: Letters

**Chapter Two: Letters**

22nd November, 2012

Dear John,

I don't really know how to start these letters to you if I'm completely honest. There is really no point in me writing them anyway, but I can drift away on whilst I am doing so. That is something that I am missing; there is nothing here to spark my brain. You know what they say: "You don't know what you've got until it's gone".

Denmark is beginning to bore me, and I am thinking of moving on to somewhere else pretty soon, maybe Belgium or Berlin; I always wanted to go to Germany, so that maybe my next port of call. Still in the same hotel too, and although I get some weird looks (due to the beard probably), I don't think anyone has suspected anything suspicious yet.

I have purchased a laptop out here and am beginning to investigate Moriarty and his 'henchman' so to speak. I need to know who I am up against mainly, but it also gives me something to do when I'm stuck in this lifeless box.

I try not to think of you too much-forgive if that sounds extremely rude-simply because it is too painful; I expect you feel the same way. I hope you get a girlfriend soon, I think she could help you in some way, and I hope you are still at Baker Street as I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will offer some form of comfort; in cooking form most likely. Although she's our "Landlady dear, not your housekeeper", I know she was very fond of both of us, and that was just an hard exterior.

Home seems so far away and impossible to reach whilst I'm out here, and I expect it will feel that way until I make it back to you. I am planning on returning John, don't worry about that.

Anyway, my hand is beginning to ache and I'd better get back to research.

Write again soon,

Your Sherlock.

* * *

26th November, 2012

Dear John,

Berlin isn't all I'd thought it would be. I mean, I've visited the Berlin Wall, and it was fascinating and everything, but I can't help but find it, well, dull. That's probably disrespectful, but you know me; the king of offending people. It's just a wall; yes it's a wall which changed people's lives and resulted in hundreds of innocent people being murdered, but at the end of the day, it's just a wall. Bollocks, I really do sound like an ignorant sod don't I?

I don't mean to. Other than that, Berlin is okay I suppose. Food's definitely more pleasant that what Denmark had to offer and I think I will stay here for longer. I guess I should have never really come here; I just set myself up for disappointment. And again, I am quoting another wise man when I say: "In the end, what you do isn't going to be nearly as important or interesting as who you do it with".

I haven't found much on Moriarty really, but I guess I've been relaxing slightly. I know Sherlock Holmes, relaxing, what the world is coming to; I can hear you saying it in my head. I don't particularly enjoy it, but it seems I have been left with no choice but to result to relaxing. The cocaine must help. I'm sorry; I shouldn't have said that.

The beard's still there, like a mop on my face. I hate it. It used to be funny, but now it's just a bloody pain in the arse. My hair is growing as well, getting a bit too long for my taste; it's begun tickling my ears.

I'll have to be off now, John. I have to get out of this box. I'll maybe have a wonder down to the river and think for a while.

Write again soon,

Your Sherlock.

* * *

28th November, 2012

Dear John,

First, I would just like to say I'm sorry. Second, I was wrong.

You know, John, drug dealers aren't generally very friendly, I wouldn't come in contact with them if I were you; I ended up with a black eye.

Don't worry though-you won't however, because you will never see this-I'll be fine, and maybe it will encourage me to stop. I think he may have twisted my arm around at a funny angle, but to be perfectly honest I cannot remember. Germany is a good place for the beer as well.

I think I got away pretty lucky really. He was an idiot of a man, trying to sell me too little for too much money, and I rebelled. The result: a fist in the face. One thing is certain; I won't be going there again.

There's not much more I have to tell you to be honest with you. My life has become more and more dull as the weeks go by. I miss London. I miss you.

Until next time then,

Your Sherlock.

* * *

1st December, 2012

Dear John,

Drugs don't work.

Your Sherlock

* * *

2nd December, 2012

Dear John,

Sorry for the last letter.

Christmas has never felt more dull, John. Isn't it supposed to be a time of happiness and joy to all men-and women? A time of family? Well how am I supposed to enjoy Christmas when my family is across the English Channel in 221B Baker Street?

You and Mrs. Hudson are my family. Mycroft maybe my brother, but family is a place of love, and that's not what I find with him. People may say that I don't have a heart; that I am a heartless psychopath; but how am I supposed to understand love when I've grown up with not an ounce of it being given to me. Not even my parents understood me. No one did until you.

I don't even get waves of missing you anymore. It's more like a constant tsunami.

I'll write again when I can,

Your Sherlock.

* * *

A/N: Hullo there humble readers. Thank you for reading. Especially thanks to aweirdhumancalledbawb and the two guests for reviewing. The comments mean so much to me, you have no idea. I also love all of you lovely people who favorited or alerted my story.

Au revior,

Holly x


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